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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27761212">A Secret Impossibility</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13'>LadyAJ_13</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>White Collar (TV 2009)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic, Gen, Hurt Peter Burke, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, pre-polyamory</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:01:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,837</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27761212</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Peter gets hurt on a case gone wrong, it leaves Neal shaken. It also leaves Elizabeth with a woozy husband unable to move under his own steam.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elizabeth Burke &amp; Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke/Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>88</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Secret Impossibility</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Rated T for some sexual thoughts, but the fic is pre-relationship, so there's nothing explicit. Peter's also barely in this I'm afraid, he's more the catalyst for interactions between Neal and El. </p><p>First fic in this fandom (!), and not written to a specific season, so pretty much spoiler free (bar one small mention of an event in S2 which you'd probably not clock if you didn't know about it anyway). I'm only at the start of S5 myself.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Neal trails after the orderly pushing the wheelchair. Peter is floppy, still mostly out of it on drugs, barely awake. You’d think a gunshot wound - especially to an FBI agent - would warrant at least one night in hospital, but apparently there are budget cuts and a four car pile up on the way in that say otherwise. Keyhole surgery to extract the bullet. Known lack of previous negative reaction to the drugs used. Thanks for stopping by, now there’s the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sting had been a balls up. They’d planned it for seven AM to catch everyone unawares, hopefully still asleep. He’d been mainlining coffee when Peter picked him up, too groggy still to make fun of Peter’s choice of early morning bagel. Just grimaced at the odour and buried his nose in his cup when Peter grinned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was June’s Italian roast. He’d refused to share.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He catches sight of a pale hand, slipping out from under the wheelchair blanket. Blood loss? Or just the chill of the evening air?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’d been three more inside than they expected, and apparently this new breed of white collar criminals were both handy with firearms and, surprisingly, early birds. It’d been over in a flash. He knows he made a statement to Diana, curled forwards with his elbows on his knees in a quiet corner of the hospital waiting room. He doesn’t know what he said. He doesn’t really know what happened. Just that there had been shocked faces that rallied too quickly, sharp bangs that skimmed past him, and then blood. Blood that he couldn’t stop, that was all over his hands and Peter -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Jones. He remembers Jones, appearing in the doorway like some kind of vision, turning the tide. The rest of the crew, finally, the breath of relief at seeing armed police still a jolt to his system. He thinks one of their marks climbed out a window, heard the crackled radio order to chase him down. He doesn't know if they caught him. He hasn't thought to ask. Peter had disappeared in an ambulance, and he’d resorted to practically tugging on sleeves until eventually someone listened and brought him here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth unlocks the car, and the orderly bundles Peter into the back, fastened in but sideways enough that his leg is elevated along the seat. He nods to them both, then disappears into the darkness, empty chair wheels rattling along gravelly tarmac.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should go home. He’s technically outside his radius, but the marshals know what happened and there will be no raised eyebrows or SWAT teams scrambled as long as he takes himself along the expected route from hospital to June’s house with no diversions. Peter is slumped against the door, eyes closed. “I should go,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get in the car Neal,” Elizabeth snaps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no room for argument, her tone shooting from his ears to his limbs until it has him scrambling into the passenger seat. He clicks the belt as she slips into the driver’s side, key turning. He should have offered to drive. She’s drawn and tight, holding herself together through will alone, and he should have offered to drive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s bigger than not driving. He’s Peter’s partner, his protection - more than that, they were working this case and he missed the involvement of three whole people. He doesn’t make mistakes. But this time he did. He got sloppy, he got comfortable on homemade coffee and the stench of blue cheese bagels at the crack of dawn and - he got Peter hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why, did you shoot him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knows he didn’t. Jones took her through it all; they all know there are no secrets between the Burke’s, and she’d asked. Peter was out of surgery but no one could see him just yet. Neal was useless, a fraction away from splitting at the seams, so Jones had told her, steady and calm in a way none of them felt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should have protected him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hums, attention too focused on the road, possibly using it as a distraction. But then, it could just be the precious cargo. They go straight through a green light, and with a jolt he realises they’re on the bridge. They’ve left June’s far behind, halfway to the Burkes’, and this is outside his radius too, but it’s another well-known path. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m his partner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should have stopped it. He should have stepped in front of that bullet. That’s what a lot of people would say; he’s a CI, he’s expendable. Not like a seasoned agent. He knows Peter would tear him a new one for thinking like that, but Neal wouldn’t blame Elizabeth for it. Somehow, he knows she doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she says simply, and lets them lapse into silence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They pull up at the house. The Gods must be smiling on them, because there’s a parking space right outside. He hauls Peter up - and his coming back with them makes more sense now, because Peter’s still more asleep than awake, and Elizabeth wouldn’t have stood a chance trying to get him inside herself. She opens the doors and handles Satchmo instead, while Neal nearly strains something maneuvering Peter in and onto the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s gone eleven. Twenty four hours ago he was in his own bed, settling down before an early start. Peter was whole. El was probably curled around him, smiling in her sleep, instead of jerkily making ham sandwiches - normal, rather than devilled, thankfully - and leaving crumbs all over the counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They eat standing up, not even bothering with plates. Satchmo hovers hopefully and they both offer him the crusts of their last half. He thinks the food was probably a good idea, but it’s settled heavy and solid in his stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take the spare room,” Elizabeth mutters, abandoning the butter knife in the sink. She scrubs her hands over her face; her make-up is long washed away, and she’s already removed her earrings. She looks seconds from keeling over, so he agrees - she’s not about to drive him home, and he could call a cab but she made the offer and he doesn’t really want to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They leave Peter where he is, nudging a pillow under his head and covering him with a blanket. To try and get him upstairs right now seems foolish. Neal takes his turn in the bathroom, turns out the guest room light, and sleeps.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes. It’s still dark, but there was something - a sound. There it is again; a whimper. He swings his feet out of bed, shivering in the cool of the night. He’d slept in just a borrowed t-shirt and his boxers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d left the door open, in case Peter woke and needed anything. He creeps out, careful not to wake El in the next room and - oh. Her door is also ajar, and the sounds aren’t coming from downstairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He freezes in indecision. Then a light hitch of breathing, another, stronger sob, and before he knows it, he’s knocking softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“El?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes lightly on the door; it swings soundlessly inwards. There’s just enough light seeping round the curtains from the streetlamps outside for him to see her; sitting up in the middle of the bed, covers a mess around her. Her tears have stopped in shock, but their evidence is everywhere; wet streaks down flushed cheeks, her eyes puffy and red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“El, are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head and crumbles. He strides in, gathers her in his arms and holds her tightly. Her sobs are quiet, helpless things that soak his shirt and seep through to his skin - none of the artifice Kate or Alex could pull out when they wanted. These are nothing but real, wrenching pain. He feels an answering thickness in his own throat, and bites his lip hard, rocking her gently instead. He almost hopes they didn’t catch that last swindler just for the satisfaction of chasing him down and taking every tear out on his hide. No one should hurt the Burkes this way. Peter or Elizabeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>on the Burkes’ bed</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he realises suddenly. In it, almost, one knee slipping beneath the tangle of blankets Elizabeth has pulled around in her misery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s thought about it of course. Guiltier every time, hand wrapped tight around himself to the thought of pressing Peter back into these sheets, watching him stare as Neal took him in his mouth. Or El astride him, head flung back in pleasure. Never sure if fantasies of her were more or less forbidden than those of Peter. Or that secret impossibility, the three of them, limbs entwined, a glorious, messy tangle that always left him panting, spent, with a helpless, hopeless pang in his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>El sniffs, quietening, but he doesn’t let go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t let him see me like this,” she says eventually, half muffled in his chest. “He knows I worry, but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t elaborate, but he gets it. If Peter saw her like this, broken and miserable, and knew there was something he could do to stop it? She’d never ask him to give up his work - wouldn’t even want him to, most days - but it’s hard to see how Peter could drag himself back into the office if he knew. Neal thinks he’ll have a hard time himself, and he doesn't have ten years of marriage and love feeding it, just a friendship and a crush and one night’s unearned honesty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t tell him,” he promises. She shifts until she’s lying down, but one hand curls in the t-shirt he borrowed; it’s one of Peter’s. It must be familiar to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” she asks quietly. “You were… quiet. At the hospital. And coming back. I snapped at you.” He almost laughs that she should be thinking of him right now, but the worry in her voice stops him. He stretches out on top of the covers and strokes her hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I used to think Peter was indestructible. Chasing me, he was… relentless. Nothing stopped him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That time with Kent,” he whispers into the darkness. “I think that was the first time I knew he could get hurt. Really knew it.” He feels it again now, that sick realisation. A tight knot in his stomach. “It hasn’t got any easier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It never does,” she murmurs, but her tension is draining away. He feels like he’s soaking it up instead, as if there has to be someone on Peter Burke worrying duty, and now it’s his turn. He loosens his hold, letting her shift until she falls still and then just rests in the circle of his arms. There’s something about having a Burke so close that lets the worry settle somewhat. Her breathing grows steadier. He’ll just stay until she falls asleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes disorientated. The sheets are warm and smell safe, so he allows himself to work things out slowly. The hospital. Peter, on the couch - crying, in the night? Oh, El. And - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens his eyes to an empty bed. He fell asleep. And she woke before him, no chance to sneak out unseen. He sits up and runs his hands through his hair, calming the mess of a disturbed night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not the first time he’s had to bullshit through an awkward morning after. Nothing happened, after all, he just spent the night cuddling the wife of his best friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh God.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He creeps back into the spare room, swapping bare legs and Peter’s shirt for the safe armour of yesterday’s suit. He leaves the tie and jacket, the shirt unbuttoned at the throat, but even so he feels more himself. He looks it too, and it’ll help downstairs where he has to face El, where he has to be Neal, the CI and friend, not the Neal who woke up in her bed and wants to do it again. Every morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heads downstairs with his trepidation well hidden beneath a smile. He ruffles Satchmo’s ears, and checks in on Peter. He’s upright and a better colour, but still looks quite woozy. He appears to be having trouble following a rerun of an old Yankees game. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s on the good drugs.” He turns, and El smiles at him sunnily. “Coffee?” she asks, handing him a cup. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes it and breathes it in; it’s June’s Italian roast, seventy dollars a bag. He raises an eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mozzie came over with an emergency bag for you,” she says, heading back to the kitchen as if he’ll follow automatically after her. Of course, he does. “Apparently expensive coffee is an essential.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is if you’re Mozzie,” he agrees. She smirks, and turns back to a pan of golden brown pancakes. She tips them onto a plate and starts a new batch, stowing the cooked ones in a low oven. It’s a painfully domestic scene with Satchmo getting under her feet. All that’s missing from the TV family ideal is a cute kid and a grouchy teenager who grabs a single slice of toast before running out the door. All that’s extraneous is an ex-con leaning on the countertop and taking up space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So are suits and silk ties?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, he knows me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t be seen dead in a pair of jeans, is that it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is New York,” he says with a wink. Although it doesn't feel like it is. This isn’t the buzz of Manhattan, always on, this is the Burkes’ house. It always feels like suburbia, even if it doesn't quite count. But it is a home. They know the neighbours and their kids and their dogs. They have pancakes and juice for Saturday breakfast, and today he will too - and maybe another cup of this coffee. But then he’ll have to catch a cab back into the bustle of the city. So. Suits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neal,” she sighs. “Peter’s going to be immovable for at least the next two days. He’s also going to be high as a kite on pain meds and useless for sensible conversation. It’s Saturday morning. Mozzie already brought you a weekend bag.” She chews her lip, staring up at him. “Will you stay? And not because of any of that, but because… because I want you to. So would Peter, if he knew what year it was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The marshals…” will know. They’ll check, and they’ll probably call. Neal Caffrey having a working dinner at the Burke residence is a normality. Neal Caffrey spending the weekend is not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need your muscles,” she says, hooking a thumb over her shoulder with a cheeky grin that quickly sobers. “As far as they know, anyway. I need you to help shift him until he can move under his own power again.” She lays a hand on his forearm, warm through the Italian cotton, and strokes down to his wrist. His heartbeat kicks up a notch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“El?” He feels adrift. And she might be the one putting him there, but instinctively, he trusts her to pull him back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like you calling me that. That’s what Peter calls me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got it from him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you did.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stares at her helplessly. He can be so good at this, he could have her out of her panties while the pancakes burn, Peter forgotten in front of a decade-old ball game - but he doesn’t want this to be a con. He doesn’t want it to be a rush; a secret and a mistake, but he doesn't know how to do it otherwise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pats his hand, and flips the pancakes. “Stay the weekend,” she advises. “Then when Peter’s on the milder drugs, we’ll talk. All of us. Get the juice glasses out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does as he’s told on autopilot, reaching for the glasses kept on a shelf slightly too high for her to reach easily. Peter does it most mornings, he’s popped in before work enough to </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> that, and to know where they are, and to skip over the one with the chip in the rim for the three still whole. He gets the juice from the fridge and pours three glasses, carrying them through to where Peter sits in the lounge, still glazed. He takes the glass from Neal though, and drinks steadily, trustingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breakfast’s nearly ready,” Neal says quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breakfast </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>ready,” corrects El. She hands him a plate, then pushes him onto the sofa next to Peter. Peter can’t be moved to make space, so she ends up perched on the arm next to Neal instead, legs curled inwards until Neal could - if he dared - hook an arm around her waist and drag her down onto his lap. He doesn't, but it still feels shockingly intimate to have her legs draped across his own. Peter’s hand lands on her bare ankle, stroking lightly and pressing her calf to Neal’s thighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That secret impossibility feels a little more possible with every moment. He studies Peter as he frowns at the screen, then catches El grinning at them both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He eats his pancakes. </span>
</p>
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